


Forgetting the Future

by foxwilliammulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, Kid Fic, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 19:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11698545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxwilliammulder/pseuds/foxwilliammulder
Summary: kid fic, mostly but not entirely fluff, in an au where season nine never happened. two days in the lives of a young william and the people in his life.





	Forgetting the Future

Will awakens abruptly, sensing someone in the room with him. He twists his head around to face the doorway. “Mr. Skinner.” He blinks in surprise and confusion, still disoriented with sleep.

Skinner feels a little uneasy. He and William are somewhat friendly, but he isn’t a regular babysitter, not by any means, and he doesn’t quite know how to talk to the boy. “Your parents, they had to run an errand,” he explains. “I’m going to take you to summer school today.”

William’s parents’ instructions for how to deal with Mr. Skinner are complicated. On the one hand, he is expected to be extra well-behaved and respectful (the only other people he has to call “Mr.” are teachers), but on the other, his dad once said that if he ever gets a bad feeling about him, he should “kick him in the ‘nads and run like hell.” His mom later agreed, then taught him the proper technique for such an action, and also that the better term is “genitals.” They still have regular self-defense nights, which William loves, because he gets to beat up on his mom and dad, and they always have ice cream afterwards.

William stares evenly, expectantly, at Skinner. Skinner knows what he is waiting for, but part of him wishes it wouldn’t have been necessary. When Mulder called him at four o’clock that morning, he’d warned, “He’s going to be weary of you at first. Don’t take it personally. There’s only a small list of people he’s allowed to trust implicitly.”

“And I’m not on it,” Skinner guesses grimly, correctly.

“It was Scully’s idea, Sir. But I think it’s a good one. Just to be safe. If you give the password, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

Seeing that Mulder was spot-on about the boy’s weariness, he sighs and relents. “Theresa Nemman,” he grumbles, glancing up at the ceiling uncomfortably.

Will immediately perks up, and swings his legs over the bed. Skinner points to a pile of folded clothes on the dresser in the corner. “Your parents set those out for you today. Do you…can you…dress yourself?”

Will laughs. “I’m not a baby, Mr. Skinner.”

“Right,” Skinner answers, feeling stupid.

“Do you know how to make breakfast?”

“Depends. What do you usually have?”

“On school days, Dad makes me cinnamon toast.”

Skinner nods sagely. “I think I can handle that.”

William joins Skinner downstairs a few minutes later, looking presentable except for his socks, which he’s pulled on over the cuffs of his jeans. Skinner delivers passable cinnamon toast, except for his mixture, which could use a tad more sugar.

Forty five minutes later, William is climbing down from the backseat of Skinner’s SUV, ready to begin his day. Before they say their goodbyes, though, he looks at the older man and asks, “So, where did they go? Are you picking me up?”

Skinner shrugs. “They wouldn’t say what they were doing. And I’m not picking you up, but they told me they promise to call you tonight, before you go to sleep.”

William nods, taking Skinner’s explanation at face value. His parents always keep their promises.

* * *

William is surprised and elated to find the Lone Gunmen waiting under the huge shade tree with all the parents when he and his class march, single-file, out of the building that afternoon. He is always allowed to trust them and, more than that, they are practically family and he loves them fiercely.

He bounds toward them. “Hey there, Willy,” Frohike greets with affection, reaching for a hug.

“Will,” Langley follows, dryly. “My man.” They fist bump, while Byers ruffles Will’s hair.

Byers carefully explains to him, once they get him buckled into his booster seat in the van, that his parents will be gone for a few days, that Will is to spend the night with them, and that they will drop him off the next morning at his grandmother’s. “But,” he adds, unknowingly repeating what Skinner had told him that morning, “they promise to call tonight before bed.”

Will is very concerned with their immediate plans, though. “A sleepover? Can we play games on your computer, Langley?”

“You know it, kid.”

Byers, Langley and Frohike don’t get Will to themselves over night very often, so they want to make it an evening to remember. After they leave the school, they get ice cream cones at a drive-through (four bubblegums with gummy worms on top) and then explore the air and space museum. There, in addition to learning about the wonders of the universe, the Lone Gunmen teach William how to identify and evade detection from security cameras.

Afterwards, they go back to the gunmen’s lair, where Frohike sets off to prepare huevos rancheros (Will’s favorite—and he even overdoes it on the salsa, just like his father), while Langley makes good on his video game promise. After that, Byers insists on reading a story to William, to ensure that his time with them doesn’t stagnate his developing mind. William, though a live-wire of a little boy, enjoys the quiet, imaginative time with Byers, as well. Soon, Frohike has dinner ready.

There is some argument as to their late-evening activity. Byers and Frohike suggest they watch a movie, but William reminds them that they have an unfinished campaign left over from his last extended visit, so the boys set about gathering character sheets and dice.

After they’ve been playing dungeons and dragons for nearly three hours, and not completely by the rules, because Will’s attention span and comprehension levels aren’t yet up to the task—not to mention his proclivity for physically acting out every battle, including swatting at the gunmen with a rolled-up newspaper to emulate his shortsword—the boy has become so sleepy that his eyes start to droop every time his turn ends. “You sure you don’t want to go lie down, Willy?” Frohike, the night’s dungeon master, asks, for the fifth time in the past hour.

“I’m sure,” the boy replies, almost in a whisper, blinking his eyes rapidly to help bring himself back to full consciousness.

“We could all have a sleepover in the main room, if you want,” Byers adds helpfully, “and put a movie on. You don’t have to go to sleep if you don’t want to.”

The boy makes eye contact with Byers, and he sees worry etched in the smooth lines of the child’s face for the first time that night. “But Mom and Dad haven’t called yet. If I fall asleep, I’ll miss them.”

Byers, Langly and Frohike look at one another, momentarily at a loss for how to respond to the clearly distressed boy. Yes, Scully had promised on the phone that they would call before Will went to sleep. But it is already ten o'clock, nearly two hours after his usual bedtime, and they’ve heard nothing from the pair. Any myriad of circumstances, from completely benign to unfathomably not, could explain why. In any case, they don’t dare try calling them themselves, as that could exacerbate an already-distressing situation.

“Buddy,” Frohike begins, “you know that your parents can’t always call.”

“But they said they would call, right?”

Will’s worry is not for his parents’ safety, nor does it signify to him a potential devastating or life-altering event. He just counts on his parents to keep their promises, and misses them whenever they leave, which has been increasingly frequently, of late.

Byers looks at the little boy with an air of sympathy. “Will, why don’t we all camp out in the front room. We’ll put the phone right next to you, so that if—when—your parents call, you’ll know.”

Will is a bit too exhausted to argue anymore. “Okay,” he sighs out, resigned, and sets out to the bathroom to perform his nightly routine. After settling into the well-worn couch, he is asleep within minutes.

His parents never call.

* * *

The next morning, the boys awaken to find that they’ve all overslept. It’s nine thirty and, per Scully’s request, they are to drop Will off at her mom’s house by eleven. It is roughly a forty five minute drive to Mrs. Scully’s place, so that barely leaves enough time to prepare a six-year-old for the day.

Will seems to have forgotten his troubled thoughts from the night before, especially when Frohike promises homemade waffles with whipped cream and strawberry compote for breakfast. He eats voraciously, getting syrup and strawberry everywhere, prompting Byers to perform a bit of magic with some wet wipes. By the time they are all clean, fed and ready to go, it is with just enough time to make it to Mrs. Scully’s.

While they are en route, Will remembers his parents. “So, what did Mom and Dad say on the phone? Are they bringing me a present? Did they catch the bad guys?”

Byers, Langly and Frohike look at each other for a long moment. Finally, it is Langley who has the courage to say, “they never called, little dude.”

His face crumples. “Why?” he whines indignantly.

This question is even tougher for the gunmen to answer. There are lots of reasonable explanations, really, that do not mean that anything has gone wrong. But the boys also know how close they’ve been getting lately to…well, figuring out what they’re close to. The goal of this last-minute mission of theirs is only to scope out an area, not to make any sort of major invasion or attack. Still, the danger is there.

“I’m sure you’ll hear from them soon, Will,” Frohike soothes.

His reassurance does little to allay the boy’s anxiety, though, and his dejection is clear on his face and in his demeanor when they reach Mrs. Scully’s. They pull up to the house and find that the Scully yard is buzzing with activity. It looks like a party of some kind is going on. “What’s the date, Frohike?” asks Langley.

Squinting down at his watch, he says, “it’s the fourth—oh.” The fourth of July. Of course. The boys do not keep track of holidays like this, especially where fireworks are involved, because they feel they’re used as excuses to burn down U.S. farmland in order to cover up nefarious genetic experiments. But, at the urging of his parents, they’ve agreed to wait a few years before teaching William about the harsh realities of the world. “Hey, buddy—it’s the fourth of July. There’s gonna be quite the fireworks display tonight.”

He shrugs. “Okay. When are mom and dad supposed to be home again?”

As they usher him out of the car, taking care to grab his backpack and overnight bag, Frohike puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder and says, “tomorrow night. You’ll stay at your grandma’s until then.”

Mrs. Scully, needing no effort to spot the van which has pulled up across the street, meets the four at the front gate.

Still a little unfamiliar with the gunmen, though not for a moment doubting Fox and Dana’s trust in them, Mrs. Scully smiles politely and greets them with a subdued, “Hello.” To her grandson, she is openly warm and affectionate. “William, get over here and give me a hug.” She crouches down and opens her arms to him. The boy complies, though his heart is clearly not in the embrace. “What’s wrong?” she asks him.

Ignoring the question, he says, “Can I go put my stuff in my room, Grandma?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Turning halfway around, he remembers his manners and fires off with, “thanks for dungeons and dragons and huevos rancheros and waffles.” With that, he reaches out for his overnight bag from Byers and makes his way into the house.

She then turns to the gunmen, her eyebrows furrowed, mostly in concern, but somewhat in suspicion, as well. “What’s wrong with him?”

Byers steps up to the plate. “His parents didn’t call last night.”

“And they said they would? I know sometimes they have late flights…”

“They promised they would. They picked a certain flight just to make sure they could call him this time.”

Langley jumps in. “He’s pretty worried about it, too.”

Mrs. Scully sizes them up for a moment. “And you three aren’t? They always call when they say they will.”

Byers hedges, “We’re optimistic.”

After a short stare down, Mrs. Scully shrugs. “Well, thank you for taking care of him. I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday.”

“It was our pleasure,” Frohike says. “We love the little guy.”

* * *

That afternoon and evening, the Scully family and their close friends have to cajole the boy into having a good time. They manage to get him to swim in the kid’s pool, bribe him with sweets, get him into a game of basketball. It all works, for a few minutes. But as soon as an activity’s ended, he’s gone right back into his funk.

By eight o'clock, Will, worn from his long day of pouting with brief intervals of respite, is sitting in the grass of the backyard, apathetically playing tug-of-war with one of the party guest’s puppies. Just as the little creature is losing interest with Will’s lack of interest, Mulder and Scully come bursting through the back door.

“Will!” Scully calls, causing him to abandon the creature and turn toward the voice he’s been waiting nearly twenty four hours to hear. She runs toward the boy, Mulder not two steps behind her.

“Mom, dad!”

When they get to him, Mulder scoops him up, and William wraps all his limbs around his father, laying his head on his shoulder. Scully puts her hand on her son’s head, runs her fingers through his hair. “We’re so sorry, sweetie.”

“You were supposed to call.”

Mulder pulls the boy back from his shoulder and looks at him. “Our phones were out of service, Will.” He pulls Will back against his chest and begins rocking him from side to side.

“We came back early, just for you,” Scully whispers into his hair.

Will looks up at his mom and reaches his arms out toward her. “Mommy?”

“C’mere, baby.” Mulder gingerly passes their son over to her, a smirk on his face. “What?” Scully asks him, suspicious.

“He dwarfs you, Scully. And to think, I’d always assumed you couldn’t possibly look any shorter…”

She reaches out and pinches his side, making a face at him. Will laughs. And then so does she.

Someone calling, “Dana!” from across the yard puts an abrupt end to the Kodak moment.

“Bill. Hi.” She sets her son down and reaches out to hug her brother. Will immediately goes back to his dad, who squats down to his level, hugs him protectively once again, and places a kiss on the crown of his head.

Bill pauses to watch the affectionate display. “It’s about time you two showed up. He’s been worried sick all day.”

“Bill, we realized that might be the case, so we came back early.” Lowering her voice, she adds, “If you want to stand here and insult my parenting skills, I’d appreciate that you not do it in front of my child.”

He looks back down at the father/son pair and sees that Will has buried his head in Mulder’s neck, almost like he’s trying to escape the unrest between his mother and uncle. He grabs Dana’s wrist and drags her out of earshot, underneath the covering of the patio.

“Dana, I know you don’t like to hear this, but you have to stop being so reckless. You have other priorities now.”

“Bill,” she sighs, exasperated and jet-lagged from a 13-hour flight, “he’s six years old. I’ve had these other priorities for a long time now, and I remain very much aware of them, thank you.”

“Well, I thought you were. Those first few years, you know, you were teaching, you had a regular schedule. But when Mr. Little-Green-Men started to get bored playing stay-at-home mom, which I warned you would happen, by the way, you started putting yourself in danger again. For him. Again.” Scully opens her mouth to speak, but Bill fills the space with his bluster. “And that self-destructive, obsessive bullshit was fine when you were the only one being destroyed. I didn’t like it, but I knew that you were an adult who made her own decisions. But now you’ve got a child to worry about, Dana, an innocent in all this. You’re going to end up getting yourselves killed, and someone is going to have to explain to your little boy why mommy and daddy won’t be coming home this time, no matter how convincingly they promised they would.”

He is breathing heavily now, very worked up after his outburst. Scully is more or less unaffected, and answers in a dull tone, despite her pointed language. “Bill, your concerns are valid, and the same ones plague Mulder and me all the time. But we cannot, in good conscience, ignore the information that we have been given, and the danger that it poses to the future of our lives, your life, the lives of everyone in this world, including and especially William’s. The fact that you think I would deliberately harm my son in any way, regardless of the mystical hold that you believe Mulder has over me, is insulting and categorically untrue. What I suggest, then, is that you mind your own business and enjoy the holiday. I see Aunt Olive brought her famous potato salad.”

And so she strides away, toward her son and his father. Mulder is sitting up in the grass of her mother’s yard, now, leaning back on his hands, legs sprawled out in front of him. Will is apparently trying to wrestle Mulder onto the ground, and has his arms around his dad’s neck in an attempted choke hold.

“Told you I was as strong as Superman,” he brags to his son.

“Dad, you can’t be as strong as Superman. He’s from Krypton. You’re just human.”

Mulder looks extremely offended by that. “I am not just human. I am Super Mulder, and you will bow down to my super strength.”

“Mooom,” William whines, noticing his approaching mother. “Dad is not as strong as Superman,” he tells her, but there is a questioning lilt at the end of his statement. “He’s lying, right?”

Scully scrutinizes her two boys, both of whom are awaiting her response with bated breath, identical almond-shaped eyes looking up at her beseechingly. She tilts her gaze from Will, to Mulder, and back to will. Finally, she nods to her son and says, “through his teeth.”

The boy is delighted, and uses his excitement to try to pull his father’s torso to the ground, again ineffectively. “Let me help,” Scully offers. “Step away from Dad for a second, Will.”

Before Mulder can adequately prepare, Scully quickly rolls to the ground and pulls Mulder’s arms out from under him and he falls backwards. Will doesn’t waste a moment and sits down on his father’s chest victoriously. Scully is now on her knees next to them. “See, Dad, told you, told you. You’re not stronger than Superman. Mom’s stronger than you.”

Will leans over his father’s face, mercifully blocking the setting sun from Mulder’’s eyes. Mulder, thinking of how adeptly she accomplished that quick, harrowing trip to North Africa with him (and looked damned good doing it, too), blindly reaches out his hand and finds Scully’s, where it rests on her thigh. Scully, suspicious of Mulder’s intentions, does not respond to his touch. “Actually, kiddo, I was telling the truth the whole time. I am stronger than Superman, but your mom,” he pauses and turns his head to look at Scully, “she’s stronger than the both of us.”

Will looks between his two parents for a moment, conflicted about what to believe. Though everything he’s seen and heard about Superman tells him that no human could be as strong or even stronger than him, his dad is speaking in his serious voice, the one he uses when he talks about all the secret, dangerous, things that he isn’t allowed to tell anyone else, not even his best friend.

He looks to his mom for confirmation. She rolls her eyes at Mulder, but a gentle smile creeps onto her face, and she turns her hand so it is palm-up, interlaces their fingers. No one is even looking at William. “Hey!” he exclaims, standing up and walking between their hands.

“Sorry, sweetie,” his mom tells him, breaking eye contact with his dad and finally assessing the situation at hand. “Are you hungry? Have you eaten?”

“Grandma gave me watermelon,” he responds, before adorning his face with an evil smile, “and ice cream and two popsicles and three cookies.”

“Jesus, it’s a wonder you weren’t able to knock me down,” his dad remarks.

“Well,” his mom decides, “let’s go get you some real food, shall we?” Scully stands and then reaches a hand out to both of them. Just as they turn to go to the food table, though, Bill’s voice begins booming out over the din of the small party.

“Okay, everybody,” he announces, hands cupped around his mouth, “we’re ready to head to the dock now. Make sure you have a life jacket if your little one is younger than 16, and follow us on over. We can provide directions if you need them.”

Will looks at his parents. “We’re going to watch the fireworks, right?”

“Of course we are, Will,” his mom answers. “I just really wanted you to have some food, especially before going out on the boat…” She trails off, glances to Mulder for inspiration, but finds he’d slunk off when she wasn’t looking. She finally spots him, and he is jogging back in their direction, some unidentifiable object in his hands, wrapped in a napkin.

“Come on, go, go,” he urges, guiding them back through the house, toward the driveway. “I’m not letting your cousins get all the good seats again this year, Scully.”

“Mulder, how you’ve managed to make an enemy out of every single member of my family is completely beyond me, and I’m beginning to think it’s pathological.”

“Did you ever consider that it’s not me who’s the problem, but your greedy, suspicious, relations?”

“My—”

“Mom,” William interjects, ever the analytical one, “I’m your family, but dad’s not my enemy.”

“That’s what you think,” his dad warns, then abruptly scoops him up and spins him around a few times before opening their car door and depositing him in his booster, William screaming and laughing throughout the ordeal. “Oh, yeah,” Mulder adds, “take this. I snagged it for you.”

Scully looks back from her seat in the front. “A chicken leg, Mulder?”

“The offspring needed sustenance, Scully,” he replies as he slams the door on the driver’s side. “I am the patriarch of this nuclear unit, the papa bear, the alpha male. I bring food. I bring meat. Family eats meat.”

She looks at him for several beats. Giving up on an intelligent retort, she goes with the old standby: “Mulder, shut up.”

From the backseat, Will chuckles, and mocks, “yeah, Mulder, shut up.” Scully barks out a laugh before stifling it, hiding her smile behind her hand.

Mulder huffs in the front seat for a moment, opening and closing his jaw in bemusement. “William, eat your chicken leg,” he admonishes finally, then revs the engine and peels out onto the street.

* * *

Mulder’s haste pays off. They manage to snag the small bench at the back of her aunt’s luxury motorized boat, ensuring an excellent view of the show. Mulder and Scully are sitting pressed up against each other, their son across their laps, wearing his life preserver. His torso leans heavily against his father’s chest, legs sprawled out over those of his mother’s.

Will has his own blanket, adorned with characters from his newest favorite show, Danny Phantom, tucked tightly from his chin all the way down to his toes. He got it as a birthday present from his parents a few months ago. He likes the show because, one, it feels more grown-up than the cartoons he usually watches, and two, because Danny fights all the evil monsters that no one else knows about, that no one else can even see, just like his mom and dad. Just like Will himself, in a way.

The fireworks begin shooting off in the sky above them before long and, even though they boom loud overhead, they somehow have the effect of making the rest of the world quieter, of making time suspend, maybe stop altogether. And anyway, the safe feeling Will gets underneath the bright display makes him braver. “Did you catch any bad guys?” he whispers near their ears, despite a great aunt, great uncle and second cousin also occupying the boat with them.

His mom squeezes his ankle in understanding, maybe even in apology. “Not really, buddy,” she admits.

Will’s face falls. “So you’re gonna leave again.” Not a question.

His Dad leans over so he can look at him. “Eventually, yes, William, we will probably have to leave again. And then again after that. And we’ll keep leaving, and coming back, until one day, way in the future, we can stay forever.”

“When I’m grown up,” Will says, the thought only just then coming to him, but conviction flooding his voice more forcefully with every word, “I’m gonna go with you.” He just knows it, can feel the truth of the statement ringing somewhere inside of him.

His parents share a heavy look. They’ve been trying their best to shield him from the darkness, to carve out moments of normalcy for him, to surround him with people who love and support him, to encourage his humor, curiosity and imagination.

The truth is, however, that they may need him someday, if he is anything like he’s been prophesied to be, and his childhood could very well be coming to an abrupt some time in the near future. This thought both keeps them up at night and also makes them rest easier. He is their not-so-secret weapon.

But these are not considerations suitable for a holiday, such as it is, nor for a bright and happy six-year-old, such as he is.

“Look, William,” his dad says, to distract everyone, “that was a really big one.”

“Cool!” he exclaims, watching the gold aftershocks glitter down from the sky, setting aside thoughts of the world’s problems that one day might, despite his parents’ best efforts, fall onto his shoulders.

“What if I was a firework?” he suggests, an engaging smile lighting up his previously-pensive face. “I’d be like…boom, boom, boom!” He jumps around on their laps frantically, imitating a firecracker more than a firework, sparking light being shed on their dark thoughts. His mom then reaches over and tucks his blanket over his toes and his dad squeezes him even tighter to his chest, gentle smiles warming their faces.

With levity momentarily restored, all three return their attentions to the sky and, in this moment that exists out of time and place, allow themselves to forget about the future for a few minutes.


End file.
